


Beckoned by the Moon

by birdroid



Series: Ask Solas entries for biowareask @ vk.com [4]
Category: Bloodborne (Video Game), Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Character Guess, Fan Game Writing, Gen, Intentionally Ambiguous Writing, POV Second Person, Silent Protagonist, So I declare, Yes it's spelled Character Guess not Character Death, this is a thing now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:09:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26549533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdroid/pseuds/birdroid
Summary: You've awoken in Yharnam, a ruin of a city that suffers the Scourge, a repeating sickness that brought forth the need for the hunts. To escape the clutches of this neverending nightmare, you must end the hunt that the Chantry claims to be the final one.Dragon Age characters and its setting, except the latter is flavored with Bloodborne. Some events are practically the same as in DA, some are changed beyond recognition, some are based on theories behind the lore — and there's only you to untangle which is which. Well, if you survive the hunt, that is.
Series: Ask Solas entries for biowareask @ vk.com [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1705687
Comments: 12
Kudos: 2





	1. ANDERS’ REMEDIAL SHELTER

**Author's Note:**

> Please, take note of the tags.
> 
> This is what happens when you want a Soulsborne game set in Thedas. 😅 Initially, I wanted to dress DA characters in Bloodborne roles and keep all the factions in their original form, but the more I pored over the facts and theories surrounding Yharnam and the hunt, the tougher the task looked. In the end, I decided to crossbreed the game stories, so don't be surprised if you see mentions of the Fifth Blight and Choir alongside. A hat tip to all the wiki and fextralife contributors! —and a separate one to the Knightess of Cainhurst for bearing with my frustration in our chat!

It is dark not, yet your vision aids you neither. The floor you awake on must be wood by the creaking sound it makes as you rise to your feet. All the articles of your clothing seem to be in place—thank the blessed Moon!—but you discover no weapons in your possession, and there is only so much protection a piece of fabric can offer against perils of the unknown.

In the glaring whirlwind of blurred lights and treacherous shadows that is now the world around you, you inch forth, gingerly stretching your hands out to forewarn you of any obstacles, or to break a fall, should one come to pass.

Whoever you were, whatever you have done earlier, by a succession of conscious choices or by the purest of accidents, you have made it here.

You could be a prisoner or a headsman, a ravishing lady or her deceptive lover.

You could be a king, winkled out by his ambitious cousin, or you could be a queen who hurriedly married her husband’s distant relative.

You could be anyone.

Or no one.

The ambiguity of your past matters little now as you fumble along, blind as a newborn kitten and just as helpless. With each step, you discriminate more sounds from the ringing that has filled your head. A tap, a drip, a growl, more drips, a clink, then growls again. You freeze, your breaths shallow and slow, and pray to the Moon that you will not have to pay a mortal price for that. The garish blur around you has ceased swirling now, and yet... An unseen impediment, you can deal with. An unseen living impediment, on the other hand, is a different matter.

Then, out of a doorway three feet away from you, a thing totters into view. First, its canine head emerges, huge as that of a horse, its muzzle teeming with foam and eyes smoldering red. The beast reels your way, leaving twining claw marks in its wake, and the reek of its breath engulfs you in an instant. You can just about make out the beast’s shaggy fur and the serrated trap of a jaw when it lunges at you in a swift, precise jump, pinning you down with all his weight behind it. Its mouth opens in a snarl, spraying your face with clammy saliva, and—

“NO, DON’T!” a voice bellows out of nowhere.

The beast doesn’t budge.

“Mhairi, stop! I said stop!”

Finally, the beast relents. It makes one last sniff of your face, then plods off, into the dusk of the place.

In its stead, an old man limps over, clicking with a crutch. One of his hands ends with a dressed stub, you notice. His bedraggled coat misses a few buttons, and the discolored scarf coiled around his neck has gone threadbare. Yet as he helps you up with his good hand, you can’t help but notice the traces of what once must have been a body corded with hunter’s muscle.

He chuckles, mumbling, “You have to forgive my girl, fair hunter. Her curiosity would surely send her into an early grave again, I tells you.

“This is Anders’ remedial shelter, so take as much time as need be to come to the senses of yours. You wouldn’t want to linger here for long, though. Mhairi’s the most skittish of ‘em beasts out here, and you would’ve been a tattered mess had I not intervened. Here, help yourself. Don’t know a hunter sayin’ no to a bracer.”

He shoves into your hands three vials of ink-black liquid. When you try to question the man, he waves you away, repeating, “Go, hunt! HUNT! Finish ‘em hunts for good!”

You leave the old man alone.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------  
ITEM — CONSUMABLES — BLOOD VIAL  
A vial of invigorating substance that comprises blackened blood, ash tree honey, and spices from Rivaini merchants. The bottom of the vial is lined with silverite to mitigate the hideous side-effects. Restores HP.

None remembers the name of the woman who concocted the recipe, but it’s well known that she refused to take the credit, out of modesty, perhaps.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------  
ITEM — WEAPON — TRICK WEAPON — HUNTER’S SAW SPEAR  
One of the most common weapons seen on the night of the hunt. The prolonged serrated tip detaches to transform into a dirk, allowing for swifter attacks.

An ugly piece of metal it may seem, but you should not repeat the mistake of Disavowing Lily.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------  
ITEM — WEAPON — HUNTER TOOLS — MOON STONE  
A pale bit of stone that hurtles moon-born wisps of magic against the enemies.

Once it had adorned a staff, perhaps, or a sword, but with the extinction of elves it must have got extracted for some other purpose.

Bare dreck, in runesmith Sandal’s opinion. A pity there’s no one to hear it.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------


	2. CENTRAL YHARNAM

The eve of the hunt has washed the sky copper-red. The blessed moon looms low atop the spiring roofs of Yharnam, its calm round face immense and pallid. Rabid dogs growl in deep, raucous voices as they prowl the streets, yearning for the flesh of beasts and men alike. The lurid stench clings to the streets like a heavy blanket of perfume, and no censer seems enough to mask the presence of the fell beastly scourge.

“The Chantry closed off the cathedral gates for the night. You might want to consider refuging in one of these houses. Go. There’s no shame in being a craven tonight.”

But you say, “No.”

The masked man afore you chuckles warmly as he shakes the crimson droplets off his drenched sleeve and onto the slick cobblestones. “You haven’t made far, yet you already speak like a hunter. Is it your valiance hatching out, or have you yielded to the beckon of the blood so easily?”

To that, you do not answer. There are more troubling matters at hand than taunts of a stranger who speaks with a queer accent. The wooden handle of your saw spear is near breaking in half, and its serrated blade cries out for the attentive care of a whetstone.

The stranger follows your gaze from beneath the dark, hollow wells of the eye slits. His irises flash white for a moment, an unnatural pair of opals caught in the moonlight. “Fretting over the weapon, are you not?” he asks, his voice muffled by the beak of his mask. “Stress yourself no longer, friend. Seek the Dream, and tend to your devices as scrupulously as your newfound vocation requires. And tell the doll the Antivan Crow sends his regards.”  
\-----------------------------------------------------------  
ITEM — ATTIRE — HEAD — CROW HELM  
A grotesque black helm fashioned in the shape of a head belonging to a vulturous avian.

This adroitly crafted mask helm is a telltale mark of assassins who fare from a faraway land. Save for the tiny round eye sockets, dark with longing and remorse, there is no way of telling who might be hiding underneath. 

As the maferat king once said, “These crows feast upon only royal blood.”  
\-----------------------------------------------------------  
ITEM — ATTIRE — CHEST — CROW GARB  
Attire worn by Antivan Crows, the group of assassins storied to have committed the most atrocious of crimes.

Although exotic to the Yharnamite southerners, the Crows tangled their name with the tragic history of the city. One can only imagine what disgraceful matter brought them back after all those years.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------  
ITEM — ATTIRE — HANDS — LOVER’S HANDS  
A pair of gloves, covered by a protective layer of silvery scales. Sturdy but supple, they befit any job from slaying feral beasts to murdering unsuspecting bastards.

Oddly, this pair smells of roses and innocence.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------  
ITEM — ATTIRE — LEGS — REMNANTS OF OLD  
A pair of boots, patterned with the pressed likeness of twining branches and leaves. Lets you steal unnoticed upon pavement and dirt alike.

The drab leather has creased and lost some of its luster over time, and yet the adamantine sharpness of the lines suggests forgotten, uncanny craftsmanship.

Mayhaps, the Crows indeed never cut the ties with the old blood.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------  
ITEM — WEAPON — TRICK WEAPON — WARDEN’S BANE  
Slender twin blades, cold and sharp to the touch.

Among the numerous weapons favored by the Crows are the double blades etched with gibberish inscriptions. Many a knight frowns upon their stunted reach, but a sure-handed wielder knows better than discarding such a light and stealthy weapon.

Besides, contrary to the belief of a skeptical mind, the etchings prove more than mere superstitious decoration.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------


	3. HUNTER'S DREAM

The dream is thick and viscid. The air resounds with the buzz of pestering insects, and here and there, the mossed bogland glints with black ribbons of snakes, slithering about in eerie silence. Blinded by the sallow curtain of mist, you pick your way slowly, careful not to mire into the treacherous waters and, deeper still, the hellacious beyond.

Finally, the haze melts just enough to reveal a rambling old shack, squatting amid the squashy hummocks, and a peculiar scarecrow afore it, stuck low on a pole and facing you. As to the purpose of its presence, with no indications of farmland in sight, you can but to conject.

The thatched roof of the shack hosts a jet black crow busy plucking at its feathers. As you approach closer, it curiously cocks its head to one side and bids you welcome with a raspy caw.

In return, you tip your tricorn hat in the most respectful fashion. Courtesy costs naught, after all.

The bird spreads its magnificent jet-black wings as it sidles hesitantly, shuffling its horny feet back and forth about the roof. After another moment of deliberation, it takes wing, flapping vigorously overhead, but not before dropping some gleaming whit in front of the dilapidated door.

It seems, the crow has left you a key to the house.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------  
ITEM — KEY ITEM — HERMETIC SHACK KEY  
Key to the shack located in the adrift dream.

After Inquisitor Trevelyan shortsightedly scoured the south clean of old blood, Wylde Witches were dragooned off their dwellings all throughout Thedas. Many chose to abide their terms in remote places, yet there was one who wheedled her way into the splendorous refuge of a royal court.

Her shack helped countless wardens before. Alas, it could certainly do with some thorough cleaning.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------  
STATION — TANGLE OF TWIGS  
Not afar from the scarecrow lies a tangled ball of twigs, fluff, and quagmire rot. A warm gust of wind swirls past, and the entanglement sways some, as if about to roll away, but once the wind abates to a tender whiff, the mass freezes still, triumphant.

From within, a sliver of metallic sheen catches your eye. By fits and starts, you cram your hand deep into the unyielding snarl, and then your glove stumbles across something—something cold, solid, and very, very sharp.

This unlikely collection of bog growth will gift you with a surprising number of sundries and other, deadlier means to end the seventh hunt.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------  
STATION — MIRROR OF PERFECTION  
None can tell how many years of neglect have dusted the mirror solid gray, but when you swipe an arc across its face, instead of your reflection, you see a message scrawled just beneath the paper-thin layer of the surface.

You read, “The mirror’s at your service.” 

Then in its stead another one appears, a soggy letter floating up still waters, “No bench can offer you a chance against the horrors of the hunt.” 

It, too, melts away, the words no more than shadows. “If your image starts talking when you don’t, you’d best think your options o’er.”

As the otherworldly ink dissipates in the water-like depth of the mirror in wisps and clouds, you stare at your own reflection, bemused. That was a fine trick, indeed! You start wondering if the mirror is in truth a contraption of some Circle fiend, when, after a pause, appears the last message, a mockery.

It reads, “But pardon me. I somehow forgot you lordlings aren’t famed for thinking.”  
\-----------------------------------------------------------  
NOTE 1 [HUNTER’S DREAM, on a vanity]  
“Find the Great Beast to transcend the hunt.”


	4. REDCLIFFE MANOR

The iron-wrought gate looms tall and oppressive when you approach it, one half fixed in place, sturdy and secure, and the other torn open, its iron hinges hanging all crooked or broken along the height of the post. A hunter’s body greets you by the entrance, an iron bulk of a champion’s armor leaning listlessly against the foot of the wall. As you’re moving past him, a breathless whisper reaches you, teetering on the very edge of hearing.

“She… she will never… an exemplary mother.”

You nudge the man, yet the only reply he gives you is shallow breathing and pauses. He silently reaches for a pouch on his belt and unclasps its lid, and you feel his gaze from behind the blackness of his barred vizor.

Mere heartbeats later, everything about him freezes.

You draw a bottle of blood out of his pouch, genuflect in prayer, and leave the poor soul in peace.

It is then that you notice that the torn half of the gate was wrenched from inside.

The wind ruffles a grey carpet of fallen leaves underfoot, and a howling chorus of drafts runs through the forsaken mansion, its array of empty black windows staring down at you forbiddingly. There are more bodies, you notice from the corner of your eye. By the looks of their attire, scattered about the place are inquisitors mostly, but some pledgeless faces have joined them as well.

You push open the frontal doors to the mansion and step into the cavernous foyer, its dusk relieved only by fading copper of sunlight that seeps through the window holes.

And within, a shadow lurks among shadows, its pads and low rumbling growl accompanied by curious jingling.

Little do you know, however, that the champion was right indeed, and an exemplary mother would never leave her son.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------  
ITEM — KEY ITEM — BASEMENT HATCH KEY  
A key to the trapdoor that leads outside the mansion grounds.

When the wroth Earl of the Red Cliff removed himself back to the tower, he decreed his wife and the whelp be imprisoned in the mansion and never seen again by the good citizens of Yharnam.

However Isolde came by the key, she chose not to use it when the scourge slipped in.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------  
ITEM — WEAPON — TRICK WEAPON — MEAT SPIT  
A slender piece of kitchen equipment, crudely refashioned with a cup-hilt to serve as a deft rapier.

The steel rod still holds vivid memories of heat from the cook’s brazier, if tinged by primordial fear that came later.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------  
ITEM — ATTIRE — HEAD — FOOL’S HAT  
A red-and-yellow motley cap with three points, each tailed with a jolly ringing bell.

Lifts the spirits in the blackest of hours.

More of a child’s toy than an article of clothing, in truth.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------  
ITEM — PROJECTILE — DREAMER’S KISS  
A bottle of fumes that make mind groggy if inhaled. Effective on beasts and men alike.

The workshop of Reveling Sisters was a birthplace of many recipes, but the alchemists became known best for the ones that dulled senses. This one in particular was inspired by a sad romantic legend heard from a Circle scholar.


	5. DIALOGUES, ITEMS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time dialogues mostly, plus two items.

ITEM — WEAPON — HUNTER TOOL — HANDHELD ELUVIAN  
A handheld mirror, perturbingly blurry of surface but well adorned with intricate copper filigree and a powdering of fine emeralds. Lets the Great One to peek into the realm, for all the good it can do.

The Circle’s quest to burgeon human wisdom yonder transformed the scholars into craftsmen of the Truth, some of whom excelled in ancient ways of glasswork.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------  
ITEM — ATTIRE — CHEST — LOOSE DOUBLET  
The famous loose, fashionably ragged doublet with slashed baggy sleeves, a choice of many men and women of house Cousland. Indeed, a scandalous raiment, fit only for those who bear the mark of the noble family.

Even the Chantry doesn’t know what to make of the unconventional methods of the Highever Kennel, yet the clergy yields to none in their reverence for the lengths the Couslands went to in order to slay the Great Beasts.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------  
DIALOGUE — CENTRAL YHARNAM — SOFTHEARTED MAN  
“First time huntin’?”

“The Great Beast is what ye’re after then.”

“Take pity on them witch wimmen, though, if possible. Imagine what losin’ a child would do to *you*.”

(gives a Rune of Transformation)

“Poor wretches need a man’s kiss, not that of a blade.”

[2nd interaction]

“Still hangin’ around?”

[3rd interaction]

"Well, stand theer all ye like.”

(scoffs) “The Beast sure would appreciate *that*.”  
\-----------------------------------------------------------  
DIALOGUE — CENTRAL YHARNAM — INQUISITIVE WOMAN  
“Oh, one of the pledgeless, are you?”

“The Chantry acts fishy of late, aye, but they pay alright. Plus, you get a fancy title.”

“Maybe they’d even admit you to the Circle. A high honor that would be.”

[2nd interaction]

“Nope, I’m not opening the door to any man, woman, or a child, until the scourge is gone.”

“A pretty face you may have, but who can tell if you’re good or not.”

[3rd interaction]

“Go already!”  
\-----------------------------------------------------------  
DIALOGUE — BOSSFIGHT — CONNOR, THE ATTAINT OF THE RED CLIFF  
[phase 1]

“Play? Game? Meat?”

[upon the PC’s death]

(guffaws, hungrily) “GAME MEAT!”

[phase 2]

(emitting a yelp that fades into a wail) “Unfair! UNFAIR!”  
\-----------------------------------------------------------  
DIALOGUE — BOSSFIGHT — ISOLDE  
“Curse him and his lovely brother!”

[upon Connor’s death]

(emits a prolonged shriek)  
\-----------------------------------------------------------  
DIALOGUE — MOB — HUNTSMAN  
[idle]

“The damned wardens.”

“I see right through you!”

“The tang of blood… Maker, why?”

“Bloody Chantry madmen.”

“Damn them priests of old.”

“Join the hunt, they said. Hella lotta fun, they said.”

[attacking]

“What in the name of—”

“You thought ‘twas gonna be easy?”

“Warden scum… Watcha doin’ here?”

“The Void take you!”

“Begone, you monster!”

[dying]

“I knew it would end… like that.”

“Andraste forgive me.”

“Oh well…”


	6. MARKET CELLAR

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! This update is unfortunately short, but I assure you I have a big lore dump draft 99% ready. Also, as always, I welcome any and all criticism, and I'd appreciate any beta reading, however harsh (or not) you might be.

The torchlit hive below the market square rings to the clangor of metal on metal. Having waded through a confusion of crooked passageways, you finally hunt down the source of the sound: the masked man from the Central Yharnam is crossing his blades with a pair of knights, a likeness of a crowned mabari flashing on their coats.

“Ah, my dearest friend,” the Crow sings out, the hollow sockets of his mask never losing the sight of his opponents. Checking each blow with a couple of daggers even as swirling in a bloodletting dance, he calls, his strained voice muffled by the mask, “This matter is of no concern to you… But as they say in the Blooming Rose, the more the merrier.”

Having had the enemy slain, you inspect their weapons and elements of their attire. You pick up a sword that not too long ago was near shearing you to the bone. Castle-forged steel, and well-balanced, too. As for their armor, the plates are polished to a mirror-like sheen; moreover, you catch a glimpse of a curious badge peeking out from under a coat that had belonged to one of them. 

“Settling accounts with the old friends,” rasps the assassin between labored breaths. He rests against the nearest stonework column, his gloved hand pressed tightly to the side that was caught by a cruel cut.

“There once was a time when attending to both partners at once wouldn’t have made much of a problem,” he adds, looking up at you, his eyes flashing opal a moment before you recognize an unmistakable, flirty wink. He groans then, a finger of blood slipping from under his palm and down the black leather of his vest.

“Ah, the wound? No need to fret over it, my dear. Each scrape is a lesson, and today I’ve learned mine well.” You hear the man chuckling through gritted teeth, “Don’t get old, that would be. Don’t get old.”

When you offer to relieve him of the suffocating cocoon of the mask, he waves in dismissal. “I welcome your impatience to undress me, my dearest hunter, yet I’m afraid I better not let you do this. At a later time, perhaps, should both of us survive the hunt. Now go, hare off. What good is a hunter that is loath to hound the beastkind?”


	7. LONE SCHOLAR

DIALOGUE — TURRIS TEVINA — LONE SCHOLAR

(gasps, surprised) 

(in a relieved tone) “Oh, a hunter? Here, in the tower? Shouldn’t you lot be bound downwards instead?”

“Unless, of course, our Great Beast is of scholarly mind.”

“But since you’ve made it here anyway, would you be so kind as to save me the trouble of clearing the upper levels?”

“There are some… hosts who have overstayed their welcome.”

[2nd interaction]

“I never would’ve thought I’d live to see the Chantry proclaim two Hunts, let alone three. And I have just reached my fifth decade.”

“Wondrous times. Or terrible.”

“Have you checked the hosts yet?.

[3rd reaction]

(mumbles, studying the bookshelf) “… childbirth… the effects of the Great One’s gaze… old blood… watered down…”

[upon killing kin priests]

“You’re back. You have my gratitude, hunter.”

“Sadly, the only reward I can bestow upon you is knowledge.”

“Would you perchance have the sagacity to appreciate it?”

[Ask about Turris Tevina]

“I am proud to admit that it was erected by my compatriots, even if the infamous ones.”

“The upper levels have barely been disturbed ever since the first beasts appeared. Even if you’re done waltzing with the hosts, the rooms would still shift from level to level, from one plane to another.”

“The Circle has taken up the rest of the tower, for all the good it can do. And this time, the Inquisition knows better than to meddle with scholars.”

“But tonight’s the hunt. No wonder there’s no soul here except for the two of us.”

“They took out the most of the equipment, and the biscuit cabinet is empty too. The Circle is going to have a field day. Or should I say, a field night?”

[Ask about the old blood]

“Well, while the Chantry acknowledges the bloodthirst of men has brought an end to the old folk, it has never bothered to explain that the hope to revive magic was forlorn, and still is.”

“The magic has been wearing away little by little since… why, since forever, one might say. You either accept it or detain the inevitable.”

“The Chantry priests chose the latter, and you well know the rest. The priesthood abolishment, the dawn of beasthunting…”

“And I cannot really blame them. The greatest cities, they were all built by elves. Yes, they had degraded over time, but their blood was still old, powerful.”

“And now, with the elves extinct, the Chantry has found the new way to secure a hold of the remnants of magic. Hence I’m no longer wearing the robes.”

[Ask about the Circle]

“Knowledge is the most intoxicating beverage, and they haven’t been sober in a very long while.”

“The last, desperate attempt of the Chantry, they are. I can attest to them being earnest scholars once, though. The Inquisition was the Divine’s hands, and we were her head.”

“Ironically, some of us even got impaled, too.”

“But now things have grown grim and are getting grimmer by the minute. By rights, the lady Vivienne’s House of Mercy should be leveled to the ground.”

“Give a kind-hearted man the leave to inflict pain, hunter, and the next thing you know is he’s pleasuring himself to the sound of a bone-chilling scream.”

“And the Circle isn’t known for admitting the kind-hearted, truly.”

[Finish]

“If there’s anything else you’d like to know, just ask.”

“Be well, hunter.”

[if attacked]

“But why, hunter?”

“Leave me be!”

“Blight upon you!”


End file.
